


Another Gentlemen Broncos Story, Just More Kissing

by princehwahwa



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plagiarism, Strangers to Lovers, based on gentlemen broncos, best-selling author! yunho, catch some honggi if you can, indie author! jongho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 17:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20951942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princehwahwa/pseuds/princehwahwa
Summary: The world is stuck in one of those corny “If it’s on your soulmate’s skin, it’s on yours” story troupes. When indie author, Choi Jongho, writes down his story idea on his hand, critically-acclaimed writer, Jeong Yunho, receives it and take credit for it to avoid his publishing firm’s chopping block. So what happens when Jongho finds his book in the bookstore with Yunho’s name on it instead of his?





	Another Gentlemen Broncos Story, Just More Kissing

**Author's Note:**

> hi !! so many people that are following my writing twitter (@hwawrites) knew that this story was happening so i’m here to deliver !! this is based on the movie gentlemen broncos (2009)... basically if you liked napoleon dynamite and its dark humor, you’ll like this movie too… it’s my favorite comedy… usually, i don’t like writing soulmate aus with these kinds of predictable and overused storyboards BUT i think this one might surprise you !! enjoy !!

Inspiration strikes Choi Jongho when he is the least prepared. The other day, during one of his shower symphonies of his ballad-like renditions of RAIN’s “Rainism”, a very bare-bones storyboard of a pirate monarchy haunted his brain, the scent of his Old Spice body wash most likely triggering such a though. He almost tripped over the lip of his tub trying to race out and towel dry his hands so that he could grip a pen and scrawl out in his left-handed chicken scratch about swashbuckling princes.

“Where are your clothes!?” Jongho’s roommate shrieks, covering his eyes with his paint-stained hands. A small dot of navy blue pigment transfers to the skin over the crease of his eyelid, slightly concealed by his roommate’s abnormally-sized hands.

“Dammit, hyung!” Jongho shouts back, the ghost of his idea wiped from his memory. “Go back to your fingerpainting and don’t worry about why I don’t have clothes on, Mingi.” The last sentence came out more along the lines of a violent hiss, much like a snake.

Mingi refuses to take his hands away, his fingers curled up in his freshly-dyed red hair for support. He may have towered several inches over the youngest of his roommates but when Jongho was infuriated like he was right now, he felt two feet shorter, feeling like he was about to get a lengthy lecture from his parents. “You had an idea in the shower, didn’t you?”

“I’ve been stuck in this block for a month and I finally had a break,” the boy in nude sighed, wrapping the towel around his waist until it hung off the bones of his hips. “I’m sure it wasn’t even that good anyway.” He laughs awkwardly, another soft exhale leaving his lips. “I have a towel on, hyung, I promise.”

Mingi peeked through the slits between his fingers, making sure that he wasn’t being fooled (curse you, Choi San). Sure enough, he was met with Jongho’s muscular upper body and child-like face. It was an enigma to everyone who laid their eyes on him, unable to wrap their head around his muscular build like a professional weight-lifter but the contradicting face of an infant. Babyface Jongho, his fellow book club, and writing course peers would call him. His eyes were big like a puppy dog’s and his lips were stuck in an eternal pout… Jongho was not a fan of his youthful complexion, especially when everyone compared him to a five-year-old. If he had to choose a body to match his face versus a face to match his body, he would’ve voted for the latter. If Jongho wasn’t having a mental breakdown over what he wanted to imagine with his paper, he was caught in some sort of gym, being it the one he had a membership to or the makeshift bench press station he established in the basement. Sometimes San, his other roommate, would join him, sometimes Mingi would sit and watch while he ate potato chips, counting how many more reps he needed to beat his record.

“You need to clean your eye. I feel sorry for the soulmate you have who has paint under their eyebrow.” Jongho snickers, pointing at his own face to demonstrate where the paint began to dry.

Jongho lived in a world obsessed with soulmates and twin flames and blah blah blah. Everyone wanted to find their other half, Jongho laughing at San who would show up to their house with Sharpie marker tattoos stretched from the tips of his fingers to the meat of his bicep, shaking his head at the peak of his best friend’s desperation. Jongho never wrote on himself, only for emergencies but even then, he had a cell phone in his back pocket that he could whip out to open his notes and jot down his grocery list or his homework reminders. Although, with this new cell phone coming out in a few months, Jongho’s phone two models younger, the company had slammed down on the “Glitch Out Old Phones So That They Have No Choice But To Buy The New One” button and Jongho’s phone started bugging out a lot more recently.

Choi Jongho wrote on himself once, stuck in his boredom in the third grade. They were learning about multiplication, math immediately deemed uninteresting by the nine-year-old being that he never seemed to place higher than a C+ on his progress reports, just barely earning a B- when his parents started cracking down on him. He was a writer, not a calculator. He had written one word, two letters, in a blue gel pen.

_ hi. _

The reply back was a vibrant pink glitter pen that was etched into Jongho’s palm.

_ Greetings, soulmate. _

_ are you in a class? _

_ Yes. I’m in history. _

_ i’m in math. i’m not good at math. math sucks. _

Forgive Jongho for repetition of his words, he was nine.

_ I like writing more. _

_ me to! _

_ It’s two o’s. Me too. _

That was his first and only grammar lesson with his soulmate.

“Choi Jongho! We are not soulmate speaking right now if you do not know what four times five equals!” His teacher practically screamed, her heels clicking on the floor as she rushed to his desk, pulling him up by his inked up right forearm, the pink and blue penmanship on full display for his classmates. His pen clatters to the floor, his eyes downcast in shame for getting caught soulmate speaking. It was against school rules, attempting to encourage students to make grades their priority, not some fruitless love gambled away by chances. 

As soon as he got home, he threw his books down, ignoring the chirps of “Hello, Jongho” and “How was school?” from his parents, his face on fire from the hot tears that threatened to spill down and streak his cherry red cheeks. He slammed the door to his bathroom, opened his tap and scrubbed every blue message that he had etched onto his pale skin, watching the clear water dye itself a bright blue. The pink words didn’t come off though, angering Jongho even more. It appeared to him as if he had a conversating with himself, mindless words aimed at no one.

_ Soulmate? Are you there? _ It was embedded in the meat of his palm and it finally got his tears to pour down, slumping into a ball on the tile floor, the pink ink practically mocking him. It haunted him.

When he was called for dinner, the drabbles of handwriting were soon gone, a smudge of glittery pink swiped across his wrist. Jongho hid his arm under the table and ate almost nothing in utter silence.

“What if my soulmate is also a painter and it’s actually him getting blue paint on his eye?” Mingi smiles. Jongho always Mingi had a nice smile. His eyes crinkled until he could barely see through them, the subtle rise of his cheekbones just making the boy glow in pure euphoria, Mingi’s all-natural blush. His soulmate better love that sunfish grin more than he did or Jongho will crack their skull open like the fruits in the kitchen with his bare hands. His choice victim was apples.

“I highly doubt that, hyung.”

Mingi huffs, slicking up his thumb with his spit to wipe away the blue pigment from his eyelid, Jongho’s lips contorting into an expression of disgust. “You know that you walked into the bathroom, right?”

“I came in here to tell you to hurry up, you’re going to be late for your date with that girl. My hygiene options need not concern you,” the older of the two barked back.

“I canceled it. She’s not interested in me, she just wants some exotic writer to add to her trophy case. This is a rare occasion where the male specimen is treated like a slab of meat instead of vice versa,” Jongho seethes, running his matching Old Spice deodorant over the pits of his underarms, the faint smell only pulling up fragments of his shower thought. “The struggles of a bisexual guy fresh out of high school, am I right?”

“Jongho,” Mingi sighed. He was used to this type of self-degrading behavior, Mingi had been around it since he was a sixth-grader, Jongho in fifth. He started identifying as bisexual since he was in high school, with an obvious male lean that apparently he was oblivious to, taking out women he thought would help his image look great on the jacket of his books. Okay maybe he wasn’t innocent in his relic collecting of women like he tries to make himself out to be but at least he’s subtle about it.

“It’s always Jongho sigh or sigh Jongho. There’s an exhale of immense sadness that’s borderline depressing and make me want to vomit up my breakfast, it’s that bad.” Jongho always had that way with words, his roommates sometimes pulling up the dictionary on their phones to figure out what “saccharine” meant, as well as a wealthy bouquet of words in his arsenal.

Mingi bites back his urge to sigh out again, beginning his statement. “I just don’t understand why you’re trying to break the mold and group up with people who are clearly not your soulmates. You said it yourself, they’re a writer like you.”

“People change, hyung. Maybe my soulmate just doesn’t write anymore. They sure don’t write on themselves anymore.” That line was far from the truth. There was a list of chores they had to do tattooed in that comical glitter pink on his forearm. He would wear long sleeves today. Jongho’s convinced that his soulmate either forgot about the whole matching tattoo type deal or that they were looking for Jongho in the most subtle way possible. Clever, but it’s been done before. “I’m going to the coffee shop before I pick up the groceries. Do you want to come?”

Mingi motioned towards his cool colored hands, basically his nonverbal “I’m busy.” He had been working on his soulmate mural for months now, an abstract representation of what Mingi thought his soulmate’s mind comprised of. There was Sharpie stretched all over Mingi’s forearm, questions asked and answers provided inside and out. It made Jongho slightly cringe, being that he was basically cheating since it was supposed to be  _ his  _ imagination, not the actual concrete representation of his soulmate. “It’s due in three days.”

“Alright,” Jongho hoisted his towel back up towards his hips, automatically slipping back down to where it was originally resting, barely holding onto the V line of his hip bones. “I should be back in an hour.”

“Sounds good. Seonghwa-hyung says to buy chips.”

“Yeah, buy chips. He can with his own money.”

***

Jeong Yunho had his earbuds in to cancel out the noise of the coffee shop soundtrack. The smell of dark roast beans and all-natural body sprays made the award-winning author sick to his stomach. He was listening to one of his books being read on tape. It wasn’t voiced by him, he didn’t have enough time in his promotion schedule to just sit down and read his own words.

The person reading his masterpiece had no feeling. It was extremely monotone, the sentences being spoken like a shy high school student who was voluntold to read from their textbook. It was horrendous enough to make wish he was deaf.

He flung open his laptop that rested shut on the table, furiously punching out his password, unlocking his laptop and opening his notes, starting out a new draft.

_ Review of Audiobook Version of The Soulmate Clause by Jeong Yunho _

He loved writing his own name.

_ After careful review of my book, The Soulmate Clause, as read by narrator Shin Hyejin, I can safely confirm that it was ultimately horrendous to my ears and is a total embarrassment to me, a total mockery of my work, and a waste of precious company time and funds. There is no raw emotion in the reader’s voice, coming more on the lines of someone in captivity forced to read aloud my book. It’s absolutely absurd and I demand a retaping of / _

Yunho’s phone interrupted his angered thoughts flying across the dimly lit screen, cutting off the monotone drone of his book. It was his manager, Kang Yeosang, dialed in his contact list as Hehet Manager. They might have been in a business-based relationship but they were still friends since high school so he often wasn’t addressing him formally as he should. He slides “Accept”, greeting his manager with a forced smile. “What’s up, Yeo?”

“I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Yeosang hisses over the line. Yunho can hear him rolling his eyes. They were a little less than three months apart so Yeosang was never exempt from the author’s teasing. “Listen, we’ve got a problem.”   
  
“Finally, someone who agrees with me about this disgusting audiobook.”   
  
“Hyung, that’s not—”

“Did you listen to it? Her voice just makes me feel like a cheese grater was being dragged across my eardrums.”

“Yes, I listened to it but that’s not what—”

“We’re going to get the company to schedule a retaping because this came from the depths of the garbage disposal, there’s no emotion and the note she plays is so sour—” He didn’t notice that his hands were flailing about, accidentally knocking his phone off his earbuds so that it clattered to the floor.

“Jeong Yunho, will you shut up for one second over your goddamn audiobook!?” Yeosang’s yelling voice echoed throughout the coffee house, Yunho’s eyes practically bulging out of his sockets. He almost knocks the barstool on the ground as he was scrambling to continue his conversation with a now heated Yeosang. Eyes begin boring multiple holes into his skull at the sudden noise distracting them from creating their screenplays or finishing their final essay, some of the patrons in line trying to make sight of the commotion. Yunho locks eyes with a man about to order his uncomplicated concoction of black with one sugar, trying to remember where he had seen him before.

He wasn’t as tall as Yunho, not by a long shot, but he clearly had more of a definition to him, muscular biceps that are practically stretched around his T-shirt’s short sleeves, the width of his shoulders almost abnormal to him in a sense. His face made him look as if he were fresh out of middle school, just now starting to enter his freshman year of high school. There’s no way he was a high schooler, right?

Jongho didn’t mean to stare at the blonde boy loosely clutching his phone for that long. The first thing that he noticed was that his brown eyes were huge. His writer’s brain chalked up “puppy dog eyes drooping in bewilderment, a deer child in headlights,” certain that the blonde would’ve broken down in tears. His face just gave the nineteen-year-old one word: sensitive. His lips were pursed, the plumpness of them already defined, his cheeks appearing as moldable as putty, the softness captured in Jongho’s eyes made him appear as delicate as a porcelain doll. Where had he seen him before?

“Sir? Sir, your name, please?” The register lady pulls Jongho back to reality, the blonde watching silently to try and get his name. Clearly he was terrible memorizing facial structures (the inner author of him) but he always remembered names. Always.

“Oh, um, Choi Jongho. Jongho.”

Yunho had never heard of Choi Jongho in his life. Well, no, that was a bit of a stretch, he’s read one or two novels with a minor character named Lee Jongho but that was as close as he was going to get. He jots that down in his head, just in case.

“Your black coffee with one sugar should be ready in about five minutes,” she chirps back, motioning for Jongho to step out of one line and wait in another. Yunho read somewhere that your typical coffee order could showcase the type of personality you have. His ex-roommate’s, Jung Wooyoung, was some exotic tea of outlandish berries and herbs. Woo is a person of out there attributes, just someone who vouched for the spotlight like Yunho did. He was insanely loud, not understanding what “Keep your voice down” actually meant. Yunho always hated Wooyoung’s laugh. It was overly dramatic, borderline of a Tickle Me Elmo and a choking seagull. Jongho’s order was two simple ingredients: Black coffee and a packet of sugar. Maybe it represented his cold and hostile exterior in contrast with a sweet and loving personality.

Why was he overanalyzing a stranger’s character over something as trivial as a coffee order?

“Earth to Jeong Yunho!” His phone shrieked in his Yunho forced to bow with an almost inaudible apology. He rested the phone back up to his ear, barely preparing himself for whatever venom Yeosang would spit on him. He stops thinking about black, one sugar Jongho and is already pacing outside to stand out in the summer breeze to finish his conversation just earshot out of the doorway.

Jeong Yunho… That was the blonde guy’s name. Jongho quietly snapped his fingers when his brain decided to unearth the answer to his identity. Jeong Yunho, the one who had barreled outside to finish the phone call that silenced the boisterousness of the coffee shop, is the author to one of his favorite books, The Soulmate Clause. He had read it for his junior year project, hearing that Yunho was on the brink of graduation when he published it. He had three copies: his original that had been beaten up by highlighter, sticky tabs, and a wrestling match in his backpack, a limited edition version with a holographic jacket and alternate ending, and a copy of the original version, just not as clobbered. Jongho was obsessed with The Soulmate Clause in high school, sometimes writing his own spin-offs that would never see the light of day. Even in his budding adult life, he still considers it a masterpiece.

“What’s wrong, Yeosang?” Yunho speaks into the receiver, his back against the wall with his eyes attending to the presence of his open Macbook that was visible from the side window he was working at, making absolutely certain that nobody on the street decided to literally pursue their passion of window-shopping, waltz in the coffeehouse and snatch up his $2000 Macbook Pro that was basically irreplaceable because of the essence of his work as an author was solidified in the files, Yunho a stickler for not backing up his works in case some sorcerer managed to duplicate whatever he had and pass off as their own. If Jeong Yunho could hate anything with his entire soul, it was plagiarism.

“Listen I read through The Twin Flame Redemption—”

“Oh, did you enjoy it? So much inspiration came from my fourth—”

“Yunnie, I’m really sorry to say this but this will not sell in any way, shape, or form. Your sales for everything else that’s this kind of slice of life that you’re so invested in, it’s not doing well for anybody. The concept is overused and bland, nobody wants to read something realistic anymore.” Despite the impending weight of the jab driven into Yunho’s gut that was this piece of breaking news, there was still a small dose of sympathy laced in Yeosang’s voice for his high school friend. They both knew deep down how crucial this was. If the publishing firm is convinced that Yunho’s idea wouldn’t improve the firm at all, Yunho was screwed. 

There was a stray silence now lingering in the air, the hints of July sun burning Yunho’s eyes more with his own impending— No. Jeong Yunho refused to cry, not over this. He presses his palm against his eyes, rubbing away whatever dribbles of a saltwater sink threatened to stream down his colored pink cheeks. He hated that he could feel the way his bottom lip was quivering, Yunho seemingly just a scared little kid. He didn’t realize that he hadn’t spoken a single word since Yeosang basically told him, “You will be fired if you don’t come up with something soon.” Yunho wasn’t  _ that _ type, but he was pretty close to walking out into traffic to become a human pancake.

“Hyung? Yunnie-hyung, are you dead?”

“You tempt me,” he seethes, noticing that Jongho was still waiting for his order. A jacket that was originally cinched around Jongho’s waist when he glided into the coffeehouse was now held up on his shoulders, just a simple black leather jacket with a zipper on each forearm that was up to the center of his forearm. Again, it was simple but Yunho couldn’t help but stare.

“Don’t be morbid, it’s not funny.” The hint of concern rested on the edge of Yeosang’s voice, a subtle hit of surprise also cutting through.

Yunho chuckles a little darkly, raising more red flags in Yeosang’s mind, the manager praying to whatever was watching him from above that he was merely pulling Yeosang’s leg. “I thought it was funny.” It was as if he was completely void of any emotion, as monotone as the reader in the author’s best-selling book, audio version. Only he noticed the agitated twitch of his fingers wrapped around his phone.

“I’m sorry, I have to go back to the meeting. I’ll talk to you later.” Yeosang hung up without letting his client mutter another word, Yunho’s arm falling limp at his side, his tongue peeking out to relieve the chap on his lips with a heavy sigh.

He resolved to go back inside of the coffeehouse, gather his belongings and cr— Nope, not that,  _ think _ about his next move as an author on his publishing firm’s cutting board, his moves to avoid the cleaver obviously becoming predictable and nuisance-inducing. He reached to fling open the front door but somebody was already pushing it at a crack.

Jongho’s eyes are downcast towards his feet, examining the scuffs of black on the toes of his Converse. He added to his mental wishlist to buy new shoes. With his brute strength, he almost slammed the door into Yunho’s nose, Yunho’s hand firmly pressed on the pane of glass. “Easy there, tiger.”

Jongho had heard Yunho’s voice on YouTube from the countless number of interviews that he watched to aid in his final project, as well as for his own entertainment. It was what Jongho was expecting… Except it also wasn’t. Is there a word that describes a phenomenon like that? It wasn’t deep like Mingi’s, more borderline of San’s with that certain pitch to give him a more approachable impression. It melted in Jongho’s ears, stirring honey in his brain until he deemed himself non-functional. It wasn’t the sexiest voice in the world but it was still remarkably attractive. He picks his head up, meeting gazes with Yunho’s… Bloodshot eyes? Was he crying?

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you. Busy in LaLaLand, you know?” Jongho’s soft laugh was pristine, almost like liquid diamonds. It was if he could translate for angels with a giggle like his. His smile stretched up his chubby cheeks, eyes slightly crinkled. That was such a beautiful thing to Yunho, this stranger’s smile.

It didn’t hit Jongho’s brain as quickly, his nose sensing it but his mind was currently leaving him on read. The dots finally started to connect and he felt a chill down his spine. Yunho’s cologne, heavily traced with musk and seawater triggered his shower thought to reemerge. Yunho’s scent was of swashbuckling pirates, the borders of salty Axe body spray surpassing immensely. Somebody had to stand really close to Yunho if they wanted a nice whiff out of it; Jongho and Yunho were about six inches away from each other. Thank you, award-winning author, Jeong Yunho, for reminding him about his shower thought, he’ll mention you in the acknowledgments.

“Ah, you gotta come back to reality, kiddo. Thanks for not slamming the door into my face, really appreciate it,” Yunho grins. Jongho’s already framed it in his mind for no reason in particular. Jongho bows again, the two making their separate ways. The younger of them noticed a small patch of glittery pink handwriting on Yunho’s left forearm, in the same place the list of chores was on Jongho’s skin. He was tempted to run after him to verify it and maybe stop chasing after women for once, settle down with a self-efficient author… Wait, Jongho wasn’t a romantic, and there was no way that he would let the number of noisemakers in his brain derail his thoughts of a sea-dwelling monarchy.

He reached for his cell phone snug in his back pocket on his walk on the street, pulling over into a nearby restaurant's outdoor seating. He punches out his code (1012 for his birthday) and opening his notes. Before he has the chance to start a new one, it crashes and tosses him out. He raises an eyebrow, attempting again. Same response. “Why do you have to do this today?” He whines, tempted to throw his phone into the popcorn wall.

He digs around in his jacket pockets, feeling something long and thin around his fingers… San’s Sharpie. He’d taken it from San one day when he was soulmate speaking under the table during one of Jongho’s book release parties. Well, it wasn’t a book, more of a personal narrative that wasn’t really about Jongho, it’s a bit difficult to explain. He was planning to give it back to San but had simply forgotten because San just didn’t remind him. Jongho pulled it out, clasping the teeth around the cap and popping it open. He couldn’t believe he was doing this right now.

_ Pirate King!! A social monarchy following a swashbuckling pirate attempting to find a suitable mate to marry happens to meet a prince of desert land and begins to fall in love, solidifying the pirate to soon become a pirate king. _

Jongho hated the smell of Sharpie so, so much.

***

Yunho’s mind was already on other things by the time Jongho was a safe distance away. He’d probably forget his face by tomorrow, that would totally make sense. Choi Jongho was just a stranger, a flimsy little speck amongst everyone who wasn’t self-established like Jeong Yunho was, of course. People like Jongho were like peasants, admiring Yunho resting on his throne of awards and praises.

He lightly shook his head at his sidetracking, already establishing his “nest” that he had been holding for five hours now. Yunho still had to pick up his groceries and give Hongjoong his easels back. Yunho tried to do cover art like his friend does for him… Yunho is a writer for a reason. Yunho reached across the table to reach for his coffee (iced caramel macchiato, extra caramel drizzle), raising it up to his lips before realizing that he had already finished it off before Jongho came in. How many trivial tasks was he going to tie Jongho to? He was just a stranger with a perfect smile, nothing more, nothing less. Yunho knew nothing about Jongho so what was this sudden fixation? Yunho, Award-Winning Author Turned Stalker, his mind’s newspaper mill was currently printing out, his mind’s newspaper mill was currently printing out, the headline already grabbing heated attention from his brain cells.

His caffeine-addiction finally emerged, his withdrawal symptoms slightly evident as the twitch of his fingers began to increase into mild tremors. He quietly scooches out of his seat but accidentally screeches one of the uneven legs against the hardwood, jolting awake a sleep-deprived college student on the completely opposite side of the coffeehouse. The line wasn’t as long as it originally was when Jongho placed his black, one sugar (Yunho, why?) so he was quick to reorder and stand in line as they concocted his perfect caffeine elixir; an iced caramel macchiato.

“Jeong Yunho, iced caramel macchiato, extra driz!” The barista called, the blonde calculating his time of wait to less than three minutes. His right arm extended to take it from her hand, the cup almost firmly cemented in his hand until he noticed strange black markings stretched across his palm and fingers. Was that—

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir! Let me clean that up for you!” The barista who was handing him his drink was now disappearing behind a door and appearing in front of her workstation.

Yunho was so neck-deep in his emotion of shock that he dropped his drink. There was caramel coffee and ice seeping into the hem of his jeans and dripping into his socks. His soulmate hadn’t placed a single letter on themselves since Yunho was in the fourth grade, stuck in a history class he wanted nothing to do with. He never even got a reply when he noticed smudged blobs of blue ink were gradually disappearing, quick with that signature pink pen of his to write:

_ Soulmate, are you there? _

That was a little more than ten years ago. He hadn’t heard what the lady said when she pressed napkins against his calves, also not noticing that she was admiring them for a bit (not like he was romantically attracted to women anyway). His fingers were spread apart, his eyes consuming every single line his soulmate had basically tattooed on him.

_ Pirate King!! A social monarchy following a swashbuckling pirate attempting to find a suitable mate to marry happens to meet the prince of desert land and begins to fall in love, solidifying the pirate to become a pirate king. _

Was this Yunho’s prayers being answered? When Yunho thought the worst, being out of a job, homeless and on the street, but something showed him that he was going to be okay. His first move would be to ring back Yeosang and tell him about this but first, he had to figure out why there was a woman on her knees in front of him.

“Forgive me, I’m a bit caught up in my thoughts at the moment.” Yunho cracks a genuine smile, no longer feeling the craving for his sugary coffee, currently amped up on his energy to save his job. “You don’t have to redo it or anything, I have a phone call to get to anyway.” He bows politely, already hightailing it back outside to get his damn manager on the line.

He stood in the spot he did the first time, hawk-eyed on his laptop but also gazing downward at his inked up palm from time to time. The phone begins to dial Yeosang. “Forgive me,” he tells his soulmate, kissing the meat of his palm like he used to before he went to bed until he turned sixteen.

Yeosang picks up. “This better be important.”

“How’s the fantasy genre doing?”   
  
“Amazing, about a fifty-three percent growth… Why?”

“Well do I have the idea for you.”   
  


***

Pirate King is successfully published in less than two months, the name on the cover spelled out Jeong Yunho.

Choi Jongho has only completed three chapters of Pirate King and has no clue as to what Jeong Yunho has done.


End file.
